


penny ante

by hikaie



Series: dealer's choice [1]
Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Flirting, Fluff, Kissing, Minor Injuries, Other, Unresolved Sexual Tension, admission of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-09 20:22:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19483318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hikaie/pseuds/hikaie
Summary: They can hardly remember a time after that in which they’d had the inclination to share certain parts of themself with others. With their duties, and with the mask, it was too much trouble. The games had certainly complicated it even further- anonymity wasn’t just a personal desire anymore, but a necessity. But… there were people Bloth could certainly trust. People they put their life in the hands of on a regular basis. So maybe this, too, they could trust them with.---as in poker; penny ante: frivolous, low stakes, or for fun only; a game where no significant stake is likely to change hands.





	penny ante

**Author's Note:**

> i've been fiddling around with this for a week or two and i THINK!!! i'm happy with it. i've already started writing a sequel because honestly this isn't where i was originally going with this fic. enjoy! (also, i have a tiny hc for mirage that his first language is french. doesn't matter that much though!)
> 
> some lights edits were made to this on 9/22/19

It has been a long time, for Bloth. Since before the games. Maybe even before the Allfather’s call. They can hardly remember a time after that in which they’d had the inclination to share certain parts of themself with others. With their duties, and with the mask, it was too much trouble. The games had certainly complicated it even further- anonymity wasn’t just a personal desire anymore, but a necessity. But… there were people Bloth could certainly trust. People they put their life in the hands of on a regular basis. So maybe this, too, they could trust them with.

Post-match, they find themself waiting for Mirage with no small amount of trepidation. The other Legend is slinking out of the infirmary, his jumpsuit folded down and tied around his waist. In its place he’s wearing a nondescript, mint-green scrub top. He stops to speak to their other teammate, Wraith, who’s been leaning against the opposite wall. They exchange quiet words that Bloth doesn’t catch, then she slaps him on the shoulder and he laughs. The two part ways and Mirage approaches them slowly, a little hitch to his step.

“How are you feeling?”

He grins weakly. “Nothing I haven’t made it through before.” He lifts the edge of the scrubs to reveal a thick layer of bandages on the right side of his abdomen. Bloth sighs.

“Hey, don’t beat yourself up! Sometimes that’s the price of winning, huh?” Mirage pats the bandages gingerly and lowers his shirt. Bloth shifts their stance, bearing their weight on their left foot now. Their hip is sore from a hard tumble, but that doesn’t compare to how injured Mirage is due to their mistake.

“I did not think Caustic would figure it out quite so fast.” They admit.

Mirage laughs. “Can’t underestimate him. He’s tricky too, y’know? Loathe as I am to admit it,” He lets out a long sigh and pouts. “-he _gets_ me.”

It does make sense when he puts it like that. Yet, Bloth is upset it means Mirage ended up gut-shot for his trouble. Wraith had helped them secure the win before they’d had a chance to get Mirage up, and the man had spent the better part of the post-match festivities in the infirmary.

“You missed the Champion’s party.”

“Aw! You know I hate to miss a shindig.” Mirage wiggles in what Bloth supposes is an imitation of dancing. “That’s okay, I’m kinda wiped actually. That match was a doozy, and doc took so long to sew me up…”

“Do not let me keep you.” Is what they say, though they wish quite the opposite.

“Nah, you’re not. I‘ve got plenty of time to spare for you, buddy.” He winks then he crosses his arms, and ends up wincing as they settle wrong on his torso. Under their mask, Bloth frowns.

“You probably should rest.”

Mirage makes a noncommittal noise.

“But I’m so _huuungry_. I hate getting stitches so to distract myself I kept thinking of those little croquettes they serve.” He looks briefly wistful. “Then I got to thinking about these homemade ones my mom makes with beef.” Bloth does recall during events past that Mirage could often be found, croquette in one hand and drink in the other.

“I bet the caterers are already gone. Did they split? Ooh, I wonder if I can get Natalie to make me croquettes. I mean last time she cooked in the communal kitchen it was,” He makes a rather abrupt gesture. “ _Pwooh!_ Remember? But sometimes she can make a mean dish. Of course not tonight but do you think she’d be down? _Or_ , I can get my mom’s recipe and-” He abruptly stops speaking and blinks rapidly. “Aaand you don’t care about this, at all! I’ll just… be going now!”

Bloth watches, humored, as he double-finger-gun salutes them and shuffles quickly to the side in an attempt to go around them. They hold out their hand, careful not to make contact with his healing abdomen. He very nearly trips when he stops.

“If you’re hungry, I can oblige.”

“Oh, no, no I couldn’t-“

“Please, Mirage. It is the least I can do.” They pause. “I know a wonderful takeaway that carries traditional Solace fare, if you would prefer.”

The trickster hangs his head, abashed. “I would kill for _anything_ right now.”

“By all means.” Bloth drops their hand from the holding position and gestures down the hall. “Take your pick, my treat.”

Like a little kid, Mirage needs no further prompting. He sets off at a trot, limping as he goes. Bloth falls in step with him.

“You should not aggravate your injuries.”

“Pfft. I’m fine.” But he does slow. “We should’ve invited Wraith. Feels unspo-uns-uhhh- _wrong_ not to have her along.”

“I will explain to her if you wish.”

“How about I just get her a veggie burger and we call it even?” Bloth looks at him sideways and finds the man lazily grinning. They look away quickly even knowing he couldn’t have seen them. The two of them step onto the elevator and Bloth keys the ground floor button after which the elevator lurches upward.

“She is vegetarian?”

“Dunno. Trying it out.” Mirage lists into the wall of the elevator. Peeking once more, Bloth takes in how tired he appears. His face is ashen, and under his eyes the skin is dark. Little lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth appear as he exhales.

“You are in pain.” They remark. As quickly as it had appeared, the frown disappears from his face.

“Yeah. I’ll pull through.”

“Maybe you should go home.” It’s a suggestion they don’t make lightly. Mirage seems immediately offended, and puts on an impressive pout.

“Am I that awful of a date, Houndie?” He puts his hands together and turns his voice wheedling. “C’mon, I put out and everything; it’s really not cool to ditch a guy before the drinks.”

See: Bloth knows he’s joking. They’ve been on the receiving end of this behavior too many times to count, and for the most part they quietly accept it. Mirage isn’t shy about his grab-ass antics with Octane (who gives as good as he gets.) Nor has it escaped their notice how he always blows a kiss Lifeline’s way when she heals him; her usual reaction is an eye roll and miming catching and pocketing said kiss. Once, Bloth overheard one of Mirage’s decoys make a loaded comment about Caustic’s rear end, and the man in question had looked at the program with such a heated glare that it had dispersed in a thousand blushing hard-light particles. Bloth’s begrudging silence is a norm in their banter. Nonetheless, Bloth stills and clears their throat.

“I don’t think you’re in a state to make that promise, do you?”

The air in the elevator develops a thickness that is immediately cloying. Bloth wonders if their respirator might be malfunctioning. Mirage goes stock-still, blinking like his brain is rebooting, or trying to catch up. Bloth looks at the counter- B47.

“…Also, I would not call you awful, nor “ditch” you.” This comes out rather ragged, and seems to confuse him all the more. Bloth feels like they can’t breathe. Idly, they reach up and tap the side of their mask.

“Oh my god.” Mirage finally says. They can’t stand to watch the slow tick of the basement levels any longer, so they squeeze their eyes shut.

“Oh my god, oh my god!” He repeats, and Bloth blows out a breath that rattles around the mask and echoes in the small space.

“Mirage.”

“You flirted back!” There’s a shuffling noise, like he jumped, or more likely pounced. Bloth feels the weight of him collapse against their arm, and they finally open their eyes to glare at him.

“ _Mirage_.” They flex their hand, but he doesn’t release them; instead he winds his own arms around their elbow and smolders.

“Man am I honored.” His smolder transforms into a goofy look. “Really hittin’ that next level of friendship.”

Shaking their head a bit, they realize their bewildered look is completely lost on him. The trickster continues to lean against their shoulder, even going so far as to check his phone while they continue to hurtle towards the surface. Bloth is simply too dumbfounded to speak. When they reach the surface the lobby outside the private elevator is quiet and dark. Still befuddled, they hesitate in the elevator while the other legend bounds out of it.

“How about we go to that place you recommended?” Mirage is strolling toward the exit and calls it out over his shoulder. Bloth quickly catches up and agrees. Outside is a deserted, neatly-cobbled back alley, but they can hear the nightlife from the nearby main streets. Clearly the post-match revelries are in full swing even now. Bloth catches sight of many replica masks, imitative eyebrow scars, and messy top-knots. Carefully, they untie a scarf from their gear and pass it to Mirage. He accepts it and wraps it around the bottom of his face, then slips his goggles from his head. As he searches for a place to put them, his hair flops into his face, and he lets it stay there.

“You are sure you are up for this?” They have to lean in so he can hear them. Instead of replying he gives a thumbs up.

Somehow they manage to slink through the streets unnoticed. Their faces flash on screens at every corner and over every street side bar. Bloth catches snippets of conversation, filtered through the high powered microphones and translators of the mask.

“I lost _two hundred_ betting on—fucking explosions!-”

“-the nicest ass-”

“Another round!” “Nuh-uh, cut him off!”

“-just cause you won doesn’t mean I’m changing who I bet on.”

“Here.” Bloth points at a shop whose front window displays a holographic dancing piece of toast. It’s hard to tell under the scarf, but they think Mirage grins. Luckily it’s not very busy- they don’t serve alcohol. The menu is small, displayed above the counter in smudged fluorescent window marker on a black glass backing. Mirage sways side to side on his feet while they wait in line.

“Do you need to sit down?” Again they lean in close. He stops swaying and his shoulder jerks up, bumping into the chin of Bloth’s mask.

“No, no, I’m cool.” He angles his head around. “Wow, uh, I never noticed how tall you are.”

Bloth pulls away. Finding they have nothing to say, they let the silence stretch. They favor their left side again and stare at their shuffling feet.

When they get to the counter, Mirage orders for them both. He waffles on with the clerk. Bloth’s translator doesn’t allow them to pick up the actual words, so he hears Mirage say, “Two mister crunch, and, um. Hmm. Can you do just cheese? No ham. Yeah, no ham! I know, weird, right?” The cashier laughs. Bloodhound makes sure to interject to pay, then they step aside to wait for their order.

“What is a ‘mister crunch’?” They’ve been scanning the menu to no avail. Mirage blinks at them and then barks out a laugh. Bloth watches his lips move, the motions not matching with what they again hear as mister crunch. After too long of a silence in which they continue to cock their head silently at him, he points up at the menu.

“Oh.” They’ve had that before but never said it for fear of butchering it; they always point.

Mirage takes the bag containing the three foil-wrapped sandwiches. The streets are just as crowded when they exit the shop. He seems to be waning- he hadn’t said a word when Bloth placed a steadying hand at the small of his back. By the time they’re closing in on the Apex Tower, Mirage is leaning his weight against the support. Of course, Bloth has their suspicions, but when they wind their way into the back alley he stops them.

“Know we’re almost there, just- gimme a second.” Patiently they back off and wait. Mirage shifts the bag to his opposite hand and removes the scarf, pushing it down around his neck. There’s sweat beading along his forehead. “Heh. Think the painkillers wore off.” He takes a few deep breaths.

“Should I get someone?”

“Nuh-uh.” He pats his folded-down jumpsuit. “Got s’more. Just… not looking forward to the elevator ride.” Those fine lines are back, around his eyes and mouth. A few months prior to this, Bloth had sustained a serious injury to their back, so they know precisely how daunting the journey can feel when weak. Hell, they don’t even like it when they’re dirty after a match and itching to get out of their armor. Once more, they shift their feet, and then offer him their arm.

“Come then, let us get it over with.”

“My hero.” He sighs, then grips Bloth’s elbow. It’s a bit too demanding to be romantic- Bloth can feel the pressure even through layers of armor. However, they smile to themself at the contact, at the man’s easy trust and tactile behavior. When they load into the elevator his fingers tighten. Bloth doesn’t react as he leans heavily against their shoulder. His short, pained breaths are loud.

It’s a long ride up the skyscraper. It begins to smell like the sandwiches- savory meat, pungent cheese. Mirage’s stomach growls. He lifts his head from Bloth’s shoulder and they immediately feel the loss of his weight.

“So,”

Bloodhound cocks their head in his direction to show they are listening.

“You _may_ have been right.” He winces as he says this, but the color in his cheeks makes Bloth believe it’s from embarrassment rather than pain.

“About which part?” Sometimes, they do wish they could show their face- the tone doesn’t always carry as much benign snark as their face would reveal. For his part, Mirage seems to get it, and smirks.

“Yeah, alright big shot. Don’t think I’ll give you the mile.” He elbows Bloth gently. “I’m just saying, y’know- maybe I couldn’t keep that, uh…” His voice dips into an enticing gruffness. “-that promise.”

“I… did not expect-”

“Offers on the table, though, for when I’m in ship-shape.” He butts in before they can finish their sentence. Bloth feels like their mouth is filled with sand. Then Mirage has the gall to lean further into them- _up_ _against_ them, a smile in his voice as he says, “Thanks for dinner, though.”

Some kind of strangled, affirming noise escapes them. The trickster laughs. Of course he’d manage to make them revert to the usual meter of their banter with a bomb like that.

They get him back to his apartment without further incident. It’s open concept, though every inch seems crammed with something- mismatched furniture, shelves entirely full of books, tech and tools. He settles on the frankly appalling plaid-print couch to eat, and insists that Bloth stay to do the same. They set the plastic bag on the narrow bar that separates living area from kitchen, and perch on one of the stools there.

“I should… let you get to bed.”

“Gotta be real with you Hound, I’m probably gonna pass out right here on the couch.”

“You are still in your suit.”

Mirage looks down, and slowly finishes chewing his current bite of food. “Huh. Well, too much trouble to change.”

“And your gear?”

“Coffee table will do.” He makes an exaggerated noise of pleasure with his next bite. “You weren’t kidding. This is great.”

“I’m glad it’s to your liking.”

“Oh, shit. I’m keeping you from eating aren’t I?” There are crumbs in his facial hair. Pointlessly, Bloth bites their lip to stifle their grin.

“I am fine, you are not keeping me.”

This earns a frown of all things. “You don’t have to be so accommuh- acone- _agh_.” Mirage screws up his face in thought, and tries again. “Accommodating! Yeah.” He takes a sheepish bite of his sandwich. For a moment, they are taken aback.

“Do you think that’s what I’m doing?” They shift off the stool they’d been sitting on and step over toward the couch. He shrugs, and his torso curls inward a bit until he grits his teeth.

“We all get injured pretty regularly. Maybe… me more so than usual, heh.” He fiddles with the sandwich wrapper. “You don’t have to be so… nice?”

Bloth stops short. “I see.”

“Not that I don’t appreciate it! I do! I _really_ do. Dinner’s great. The walk was great. You- your arms are great.” He looks a little helpless at this admission but steamrolls onward. “But you don’t owe me anything. You and Wraith clutched us that win, you should be out celebrating. You should at least get to eat your dinner. I’m sera-serio- I’m fine!” He takes a breath and shoves the rest of the sandwich in his mouth.

“Wraith did not accompany us because I asked her not to.” Bloth tells him. He stops chewing. There it goes again- that little dip in his forehead, which Bloth struggles not to label as adorable. “I waited outside the infirmary for you.”

“Yah?” He’s still trying to work the food down, and sounds genuinely puzzled.

“I took you out for food.” They offer up. He nods along. “I _flirted_ with you, Mirage.”

“Okay?” His voice is hoarse after swallowing, so he clears his throat. “Okay, all nice things, Houndie. Like…” He looks down at his hands and fiddles with the foil leftover, tearing it into strips. “Kinda nicer than usual? I don’t need pity ‘cause I’m injured and you feel like it’s your fault.”

“You can _not_ be this dense.”

“Hey!” Infuriatingly, he smiles. “That’s more like the Hound I know.”

Bloth exhales loudly. “Alright. I am going to do something. I ask that you refrain from going on one of your tangents.”

He does a little motion and says, “Sure. Scout’s honor.”

“What?”

“Uh. Pinky promise?” Bloth swats his offered hand down.

“Please take this seriously.”

“Well I don’t really know- oh. Oh, you-”

“Mirage.” Bloth does not pause from unhooking their mask, but they put a fair bit of heat into his name. His jaw snaps shut so fast Bloth hears his teeth clack.

The whole affair takes less than thirty seconds of practiced maneuvering. Once they’re free they set the helmet on the table, and lastly reach up to pull off the underlying cowl. For a great many moments they stare at each other silently, until with a narrowing of their eyes, they say, “You can speak.”

“…wow.”

This earns him an eye roll, with an unguarded amount of fondness attached. A chill sweeps over them- half the exposure of so much sweaty skin, and half the way he’s looking at them. “Finally, I’ve rendered him speechless.” They joke without heat.

He seems to feel no shame in watching their mouth, quite pointedly at that. “Okay, you’re right, I’m an idiot.”

“Those were not… exactly my words.” Suddenly the nerves set in- it has been so long. Anxiety seems to crawl as readily across their skin as his gaze, and the weight of it forces their eyes closed.

“Houndie?”

The responding noise works up from their throat and catches. They continue to keep their eyes shut.

“You like me?”

“Well, as I am not a child- yes, I have feelings for you.”

“Aw, how romantic.”

“You- are infuriating.” They aren’t stupid- they can feel the drawing down of their eyebrows, the snarling rise of their upper lip. They know fundamentally that he can see these things, and yet they do little to control themself. And that’s how they knew, wasn’t it? How out of control he makes them feel.

So they cave and open their eyes, and look back at him. He looks positively star struck, which incites a squirming in their stomach. “You really do not know what to say, do you?”

“I think you might gut me if I screw it up.”

“…Try me.” As many times as they have looked at his eyes, never have they seem them so clearly- a warm brown, like earthy soil or warmed and faded leather. The color is somewhat washed out, ringing the deep black of his pupils. Needless to say, they are captivated.

“Even if it’s a tangent?”

“As… long as it is not about my appearance.”

“Hou- Bloodhound. My feelings for you have nothing to do with that.”

They lurch closer to him then freeze, once more squeezing their eyes shut. It’s the safety of willful ignorance, a childish need to pretend. Has it become a crutch, their mask? They are not ashamed of their appearance- far from it. Every part of them is how it should be, how they want it to be. But to have every emotion on display it setting their limbs to quivering.

“Whoa, okay. Wrong thing to say? Totally meant it in a good way. I like you! I mean I know I’m a flirt but you’ve got that whole- d-dangerously hot aesthetic going on- totally my thing by the way-” He audibly gulps.

“Stop talking!” They blurt. Helpless, they feel helpless, as if they are not the reason they are in this situation.

“Okay! See! Fucked it up!”

“No-“ They grit out. “Just—I wanted to- I _want_ to kiss you.”

“Oh?” He asks, and it’s a little wrong how hopeful he sounds. How much it, in turn, encourages Bloth. “Oh! Sure, yeah, go for it.”

“You are sure?”

“If you don’t I will.” He puts an amount of smarm into his words that gets them the open their eyes and look down at him doubtfully.

“As long as you stop doing that.” They reach out and touch the dimple in his cheek. He startles and it goes away

“Doing what?”

“Faking it.”

“Sorry, no promises.” His smile this time is a bit more genuine. “If you hated it that much, would we be here?”

Some mean little streak in them compels Bloth to say, “You have crumbs in your beard.” It is incredibly gratifying to see him blush, then reach up to hurriedly wipe them away. They strike while he’s still distracted.

He tastes like the sandwich, slightly, but mostly there is just the barely-there tang of sweat. His beard scrapes against their skin when they angle into it, and his hand flutters from his own cheek to just under Bloth’s jaw. When he parts his lips they deepen the kiss, forcing him further into the sofa, head angling up to meet them. Bloth has to throw out a hand against the back of the couch. They find themself slotting their legs between his parted knees, and beneath them Mirage makes the most delicious sound, like a starving man given food. This, finally is what makes them draw back, exhaling against his mouth and reaching up to thumb the spit from his bottom lip. They watch his eyes shutter, ecstasy flitting across his features and disappearing far too soon.

“No fair.” He finally breathes.

“Hm?” They are quickly losing control of the situation. In fact they feel it might have gone away long ago, approximately the moment they set the mask on the table.

“You’re good at that.” He whines. Under their thumb they feel his lips move, and again when he says, “I want you to do it again.”

“I can.” They say, and cup his jaw gently to draw him back in. His mouth is perfect, plush from kissing, with a rough little patch on the lower lip from being in the desert all day. Bloth can’t help themself- they bite him, hard, and his hips jump off the couch.

“Shit, shit.” His hands are twitchy, and Bloth pulls back with no small amount of regret.

“Are you alright?” They can’t imagine that motion didn’t severely aggravate his injury.

“F _aaa_ ntastic.” The response would be more believable were it not bitten out. Mirage’s hands are fisted in the loose material of his pants, and he’s sweating again. His face is tight, eyes closed.

“My apologies, you are just… so…” Bloth reaches out, while his eyes are still closed, but they open to meet their scrutinizing look when they palm his forehead. He’s clammy, and his hair limply curls over Bloth’s fingers.

“So?” Mirage prompts. He’s flashing Bloth a strained smile.

“Do not fish for compliments.” Bloth teases. They finally pull back, and turn away from the other Legend. “I’ll get you a glass of water. You should take what the doctor gave you.”

Surprisingly, Mirage doesn’t put up a fight. From the kitchen they can hear the rattle of a pill bottle, then two muffled thumps. This draw their attention, but it’s only Mirage discarding his boots. He flounders a bit, trying to reposition himself on the couch, then catches them looking. Bloth ducks their smiling face, but not without catching Mirage’s scowl.

“Little help?”

“I thought you did not want pity.” They don’t bother keeping the laughter out of their voice. They do set down the water glass and step over to him, providing one arm as an anchor and helping him lift his legs up onto the couch.

“Yeah, well that was before the pain meds wore off completely, and before you made me tear my stitches.”

Bloth startles, and immediately searches his shirt for signs of blood. “Did I really?”

“Nah.” Mirage makes a grabby hand, and with a frown Bloth passes the glass. “You could warn me, though, before putting those chompers to use.”

There is a beat of silence. Startled, Bloth realizes they are blushing. Then Mirage dares to say, “Wow, that’s adorable.” The glare they muster up is nothing in the face of his sunny, and entirely smitten, gaze. “Thank the Gods for Caustic shooting me in the stomach, huh?”

“I was going to do this either way.” It slips out as a murmur, and he blinks at them. Up close, Bloth can appreciate the notes of lighter brown in his irises. Even injured, dirty, and no doubt exhausted, Bloth finds him unbearably attractive. They run with the admission. “I wanted to take you out. I wanted you to…” They drag their eyes away from his face and look out the window behind the couch. City lights twinkle far below.

Mirage whistles and grins. “Booty call?”

“Must you be so crass?”

“I _know_ I’ve heard you say worse.” For a moment, he props his chin in his hand. Quickly tiring of this, he lets his head loll onto the armrest. “But I’m right, aren’t I?”

“I… would not call it that.”

“Because of the feelings, right?” Mirage purses his lips. “So you just expected me to put out on the first date?”

Bloth looks at him, a little terrified. He maintains his composure for a few moments, then snickers. “God, the look on your face.”

They groan and swipe up their helmet.

Mirage grabs for their arm, a weak and glancing grip on their elbow that makes them pause. “Aw, Hound, no, c’mon.”

“I do not like to be made fun of.” They grumble. At the moment their lap seems a good place to direct their gaze. Pieces of their armor overlap and underneath the waist of their pants dig into their midsection with the angle. The day has been very long, and even Bloth is tired. Weariness is giving way to a petulant attitude, it seems. “And I would very much like to put this back on now.”

“Okay.” Mirage concedes, but doesn’t let go. “Okay, just… one sec, please?”

Bloth looks up at his words. Mirage smiles when he meets their eyes. In their periphery they see his hands move, at the same time feeling the release of pressure on their inner arm. Like he’s approaching a scared animal, Mirage telegraphs all his movements in broad, yet slow, motions. Bloth is not surprised that his hands end up on their face, but they are startled at the feel of his skin on theirs.

“You’re blushing again.” He says, in awe. They grit their teeth, but soon slacken their jaw when he begins tracing the scars on their face. First the deep, jagged claw marks, then the smaller, nearly invisible mark slicing through their lips. Bloth prides themself on their patience, their stamina. Right now they feel untethered and breathless.

“Elliott…”

“That sounds really nice.” He grins, and it’s dopey, and a little charming if Bloth is willing to admit it. It makes their stomach go warm. Both of his thumbs come to rest at the edges of their mouth, and together they lean in at the same time.

“Elliott.” They moan against his lips. He drinks in the sound, hums in return so they feel the vibration of it. Now his hands delve into their hair, loosening it from it’s braid. He’s pulling them in, closer; they’re twisted into his body and beginning to angle into the couch. His kiss is filthy and demanding; they struggle for some semblance of control, of finding the upper hand. Bloth tries to bite him, a sharp nip to his bottom lip, but Elliott’s response this time is to tug their hair.

“Gods.” They gasp out as they yank back. He barely gives them respite, pressing a wet smile against the corner of their mouth, before taking them again. Bloth groans helplessly, and their helmet _thunks_ on the area rug as their hands search for something better to do. They grasp his face, for a moment losing sight of gaining control and instead holding him almost desperately close. He makes an encouraging noise and that’s when Bloth’s had enough. They push him back with a growl and hold him at bay.

“You are trying me.” For his part, Elliott looks blissful, and he licks his lips and keeps grinning.

“Sure am.” He wiggles his fingers, further loosening their hair. “C’mere.”

“We shouldn’t.” They hesitate, though, and he takes advantage, leaning in to mouth at their jaw. The scrape of his beard has them fantasizing already, but they clear their throat. “Elliott. I cannot.”

This makes him pull away. “No?” The concerned tilt of his brow makes Bloth smile, if nervously.

“I would have you right here, right now, but for your injuries.”

“Just wait ‘til the meds kick in.” He suggests, voice husked out and wanting. Bloth shakes their head.

“Absolutely not.”

“You’re no fun.” The other legend pouts, but he extracts his hands from their hair. For a few more moments he seems to admire them, so they do the same: the pleasant flush of his face, the bitten-red of his lower lip. His eyes, too- a well of black surrounded by that familiar brown.

“One more?” Elliott asks, and with a smile Bloth leans in, and presses their lips just at the corner of his mouth.

“Insatiable.” They murmur it up against his skin, and he shivers and laughs.

“Can’t help it.” As they pull away his hands go slack, sliding from their hair, only to caress their face as they go. “Don’t know when I’ll get to do it again.”

Bloth shifts out of his grip, and picks up their helmet. “When you are better.”

His voice is cheery. “That’ll take three days, tops.”

“Hmm.” They also pull on the cowl while facing away from him. “I guess it’s a date, then.”

“Ohh, smooth, I could get used to you flirting with me.” Bloth hums, and slips on the mask. Elliott is quiet while they do it. When everything is in place and they turn to look at him, he seems on the verge of sleep, head pillowed on one of his arms while he fiddles with the holograph nodes still strapped to the suit tied at his waist. He’s glancing between them and his hands speculatively.

“Am I dreaming?” He asks them- they now suspect the painkillers have indeed taken effect. They reach out and cup his cheek.

“Does it feel that way?”

Elliott frowns. “Nah, but it never really does, and then I still wake up.”

Bloth inhales sharply. “No, elskan, you are not dreaming.

The man beside them smiles, and it’s so different from his usual- the big, charming grins, the cocky smirks, or a flirtatious quirk of his lips. This is small, almost private. Maybe one they aren’t meant to see.

“Sweet.”

Silently, they give themself one last moment to look at him before standing and crossing toward the kitchen. They scoop up the takeaway, remembering suddenly that Elliott had ordered for Wraith as well. She’s probably still awake… Bloth has found her schedule to be very confusing. When they turn to relay to Elliott that they will drop it off, they find him sleeping. His hands are limp in his lap, and his mouth is parted just-so.

Bloth crosses over to pull an abominable crocheted blanket down over him from the back of the couch. They make sure to delicately unsnap the rest of his equipment and leave it on the coffee table. During their ministrations he doesn’t so much as stir, nor when they brush the hair from his face in parting.

They make sure to turn off the lights as they leave.


End file.
